


Close

by Cameron_McKell



Series: Upon Further Review [16]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: M/M, Major Character Injury, Motorcycle Crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cameron_McKell/pseuds/Cameron_McKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Users don't break like Programs do.</p>
            </blockquote>





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The cat seemed to come out of nowhere.

 

They were on their way to the arcade to drop Tron off; Sam had an early morning meeting, so he couldn't come with him, but there was a test scheduled for a new video game engine that afternoon, so Tron had been busy drafting a priority queue to get the Grid ready for it, and hadn't seen the small orange tabby until Sam's headlight landed on it.

 

Sam tried to swerve to avoid it while it ran, and then they were falling, skidding and tumbling along the pavement.

 

Tron propped himself up carefully; he was covered in fractures, particularly his back, his helmet which had auto-engaged when they started to fall, the outside of his arms where he'd been holding to Sam, and his left leg which had been caught under the motorcycle when it tipped.

 

“Sam? Are you all right?” His audio output was a bit distorted, lightly damaged from the crash.

 

Sam didn't reply.

 

Tron crawled over to Sam – they'd broken apart at the end of the tumble – careful not to put any weight on his left leg, in case the extra pressure caused it to shatter, and carefully turned him over. His clothes were a mess, leather jacket torn, shirt and jeans shredded like the road had been replaced by that 'cheese grater' thing, and he was unconscious.

 

Considering the scratches gouged into its surface, Tron was extremely grateful he'd worn his helmet tonight.

 

Something warm bubbled over his hand on Sam's chest; Tron looked down curiously, and saw red.

 

It was everywhere.

 

He stalled for a moment, staring at it in horror as it flowed over the tops of his fingers, glowing almost orange over the circuitry.

 

He rebooted his priority list with a vengeance – not panic, it wasn't panic, no no _no_ -

 

“-no no no no-” his audio output was looping, he knew, as he frantically stripped out of Sam's clothes, barely even noticing when his left leg did indeed derez under the force of his movements, save that it helped him pull the fabric off faster and wrap it around Sam. He tied the pants and jacket around him as tightly as he could without tearing the fabric, trying to hold that red in; Sam needed that, Sam needed-

 

Help. He needed help. Help Tron couldn't give him.

 

He dug through Sam's pocket, and pulled out his phone. Sam had told him emergency numbers.

 

He started with 911.

 

His audio output was still looping – an endlessly repeating 'no' – so he couldn't talk to the User on the other side of it.

 

Instead, he waited until he heard it connect, then set the phone by Sam's scraped up, empty hand. He could hear the voice on the other side distantly, calling to get an answer, and distantly wondered if they could hear him as well. He tried to gather the red – blood, he knew it was blood, but there was some disconnect going on in his processes somewhere – back up, but he didn't have a container for it, and he didn't know how to put it back in.

 

The little User voice said help was coming, and he nearly shut down.

 

It was a good thing he didn't, though, because now he had a new problem.

 

He was bare down to his Gridsuit, most of his left leg was missing, and Users he didn't know – and more, didn't know _him_ – were coming.

 

He slowly pushed himself back, away from Sam. He'd finally stopped looping, but only because  he was now nearly vibrating with distressed purring. He almost reached for Sam's phone, wishing he'd brought his own with them – he'd thought he had no need for it, though, for this simple trip – but no, the User voice needed the connection to stay open, so he turned, and began to crawl away.

 

The Ducati fell into his line of sight for a moment, and some distant part of him cataloged the damage on it, but he moved away from it, toward the nearest back alley he could half-crawl, half-drag himself into.

 

He'd just settled himself down behind a dumpster when the sirens came, and he let himself crash.

 

His internal chronometer registered that 3.7 hours had passed when he came back online.

 

Alan was standing in front of him, looking haggard and worn, but he was smiling.

 

Tron smiled tentatively back. If Alan was here, then...

 

“Tron...” Alan walked over then crouched down, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe off the worst of the dried red, more rust-brown than red now. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

 

Alan slipped Tron's left arm around his shoulder, then helped to pull the program up onto his remaining leg. “Sam, is he?...”

 

“He's going to be fine, thanks to you,” Alan reassured him, helping Tron hop along to his car parked nearby.

 

Tron's sigh of relief was nearly lost in the scuffle of their movement.

 

“I'm glad.”


End file.
